The Keep of Fire by Mark Anthony Page A

to Max’s place.
    He came up short against a twelve-foot chain-link fence.
    Travis stared at the fence, not comprehending. Then he remembered. They had raised this fence a few years ago. A boy playing in one of the boxcars had shut the door, locking himself in. They hadn’t found his body for weeks.
    Travis took a step back and looked up. The fence was topped with coils of razor wire. Rust tinged its edges, but it looked like blood, and he knew the wire would still slice through skin like butter. The only way out was to return the way he had come, then circle around the yard. Except that would take him farther out of his way than heading back to town and his truck.
    He gripped the chain link, but he didn’t bother tugging on it. There was nothing to do but go back and hope he hadn’t wasted too much time. Besides, maybe he was wrong. Maybe all Max had gotten when he touched the man in black was the burn on his hand. At that moment Max was probably in his apartment, resting like he was supposed to be, and he would laugh when Travis knocked on his door.
    Or maybe Travis would look through the window of Max’s apartment again, only this time he would see a picture like the one in the paper. He shook his head, forced the image from his mind, and turned away from the fence.
    “Hello, Travis.”
    Travis spun and stared back through the fence, jaw open. The man stood where, a moment ago, there hadbeen only dead weeds and empty air. Then Travis saw the curve of black metal just protruding from behind a boxcar. But how had the man known to come to the railyard?
    “Look in your pocket,” the other said.
    The man was still clad all in black, and, with his neatly trimmed goatee and shorn blond hair, he looked ready for a New York art opening. But shadows touched the pale skin beneath his eyes, and stubble darkened his cheeks. This night had taken its toll on him as well.
    “Your pocket, Travis. I can see the question on your face. Go on—you’ll find the answer there.”
    Travis hesitated, then slipped a hand into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out the same few pennies he had at the newspaper box. “I don’t understand.”
    The man smiled—a compelling expression. Travis had always envied men like him: short, compact, brightly handsome. Sometimes it felt ridiculous to be tall.
    “That one,” the other said. “The Denver 1966. Look at it—bring it in close.”
    Travis held up the coin. At first he saw nothing unusual. Then he noticed it was thicker than the other pennies, and a seam ran along the edge. He worked a thumbnail into the seam. The penny split in half. Inside the thin, copper shell a silicon chip shone like a diamond in the morning light.
    Travis looked up, eyes wide. “But you were never close enough.”
    “To plant it on you? No, I wasn’t. But a customer in your saloon would have been, don’t you think? In fact, I bet you’d probably never even notice if she slipped it into your pocket while you delivered a round of drinks to her table.”
    Travis shook his head. It didn’t make sense—everyone at the saloon last night had been a local.
    “It’s like I said, Travis.” The man spread his hands. “You can never really know another.”
    So that was the answer. Someone else he knew had used him. Travis turned and heaved the transmitter deep into the railyard. There was a
ping
, then silence. He turned back, and his words edged into a sneer.
    “So what took you so long to find me?”
    “The mountains have a strange effect on radio signals, especially after dark. We couldn’t pick you up until sunrise. Then we came as quickly as we could.”
    Now Travis grinned—it was not an expression of humor—and rattled the fence. “It looks like something got in your way.”
    The man shrugged, his expression sheepish. “We try to account for everything we can. This mission took several months of planning. But even we can’t predict all factors. I’m afraid our map of Castle City was somewhat out of